


Refueling

by anamia



Series: A wild space AU appears [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Enjolras has literal glow hair, Enjolras is a good friend, Gen, especially when designed to be impossible to navigate, so is Feuilly, space bureaucracy is just as bad as any other kind of bureaucracy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-27 02:40:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10800000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamia/pseuds/anamia
Summary: Enjolras and Feuilly meet face to face for the first time.





	Refueling

Feuilly scrubbed a hand over his eyes, trying to will them to stay open just a little while longer. Compiling an appropriate report on their latest expedition had taken longer than expected – distorting verifiable facts until they were both palatable to the authorities and still technically accurate was a delicate task, and, while Feuilly fancied himself relatively good at it, it still took longer than he expected every single time – and he had promised Enjolras that he would do some proofreading before the end of the week. Next to him a sat a half-empty, entirely forgotten mug of instant coffee, a substance which was not improved by being left out to cool for hours on end. He would finish it, when he noticed it again, but only out of a sense of responsibility to avoid wasting resources. Saint-Antoine was not the poorest of the moon colonies orbiting Lutecia, but neither was it especially wealthy. To live on Saint-Antoine meant taking what you needed and no more, lest everyone go without.

He looked back down at his datapad, the text on its screen already filled with increasingly cryptic proofreading notes. No doubt he would have to go back over the manuscript before sending it back and translate his comments back into something vaguely intelligible to someone other than him, but that could wait. For now he had only to read the end of the section he had assigned himself for the night and then he could retreat to his bed for a few hours. Fixing this reward in his mind, he turned back to his task with slightly renewed vigor.

This vigor lasted until someone passed slightly too close to him on their way somewhere else. Feuilly looked up, annoyed and knowing he shouldn't be. Every resident of the dormitory had access to the common area, after all, and space was necessarily limited. The passer by could not know that they had knocked him out of his hard-won concentration, or that he had only a few more pages to go before he could call it a night. He took a deep breath, remembered the mug before him, and took a large swallow. Only a lifetime of practice kept him from gagging on the bitter liquid, and he grimaced. Maybe a change of scenery would help. He couldn't go to his room – his roommate worked first shift at solar plant and usually got up roughly as Feuilly went to sleep – but he could at least try for a seat by a window. The common area had cleared out save for those who kept irregular hours, third shifters on their nights off or those like Feuilly for whom sleep was a rare luxury. He rose, stretching out stiff limbs and working a crick out of his back, then picked up his datapad and mug and picked his way through the maze of desks and chairs to an armchair near a window. He couldn't see the stars from here – Saint-Antoine's major population center had not been designed with stargazing as a priority – but he knew where they were, could map a star chart onto the light-polluted sky and imagine what it would look like.

He looked back down at the datapad with a sigh. The manuscript before him was a profoundly uninspired piece of political allegory, blatant enough to stand no chance of getting through the censors but too formulaic to say anything particularly interesting. He had, by this point, read a solid dozen of nearly identical manuscripts, and he had a full grasp on why Enjolras outsourced the task of triage and proofreading as often as he could. He also understood why his friend usually asked _him_ when he was looking to delegate – any of their other friends would have been either too artistically offended to avoid savaging the poor writer or too bored to finish the entire thing, if not both at once. Still, knowing why he had been chosen for this task did not make it any more enjoyable, particularly late at night after an already trying day filled with filing reports and having them sent back because font that had satisfied the Scientist Ethics and Oversight Board last month was this month deemed unprofessional, and oh, by the way, regulations now state that each mission report must include a full and exhaustive list of expenses, with justification for each, rather than an overview. Sometimes, Feuilly thought the Board changed their rules on a monthly basis purely to spite him, particularly.

He had nearly reached his stopping point when someone sat down across from him, once more jarring him out of his concentration. It took physical effort on his part to keep from snarling wordlessly at this inconsiderate newcomer, and instead he kept his eyes pointedly on his datapad, hoping without much conviction that whoever it was had just chosen this seat at random rather than because they had business with him.

Sure enough, a few moments later a soft voice said, “Citizen Feuilly?”

Only the chosen honorific stopped Feuilly from snapping that he was busy. Few were those who would be so brazen about their political position, even in a place like this. He looked up, then blinked, resisting the urge to rub his eyes again to make sure he wasn't seeing things. “Enjolras?”

The blond man before him nodded, looking a little rueful. Seeing him for the first time in person, rather than through the grainy screen of his datapad, Feuilly appreciated for the first time what Combeferre meant when he talked about the effects of Enjolras' mixed-species heritage. The sculpture-like quality of his features came through well enough digitally, but never before had Feuilly realized that, when Combeferre and Courfeyrac talked about Enjolras glowing, they did not mean it metaphorically. His hair in particular seemed to shine with its own radiance, entirely unconnected to the flat fluorescent lighting in the common area, or the dull glow of the datascreens set into the walls.

Feuilly realized he was staring and looked away, feeling his face head up a little. “If you've come for Jean LaPierre's manuscript, I'm afraid I haven't been able to finish it yet.” He did not like admitting this, but he never liked keeping the truth from his friends. He bent and distorted it daily for a living; applying these skills in his personal life seemed dirty.

Enjolras shook his head. “No,” he said. “Or, rather, yes, I have, but not in the way you think.”

Feuilly blinked. “I'm sorry?”

“What I mean to say is that, if you have not finished going through it yet, I would be happy to take the task off of your hands. Combeferre said that they updated the standards yet again, and I know that Jean's work can be...”

“Stylistically consistent to the point of rigidity?” Feuilly suggested.

“Yes,” Enjolras said, nodding.

“Thank you, but I told you I would go through it,” Feuilly said. “You needn't take on work that I already committed to. The Board's standards are no more exacting than they ever have been.”

“No, I want to,” Enjolras said. “That is, I do not want to impose on you any more than I have, and as I find myself in the area with no other pressing matters, it seems only reasonable that I reclaim the work which was always mine to do.”

Feuilly blinked, trying to force his weary brain to untangle that sentence into something that resembled standard logic. Enjolras watched him in silence, one hand absently running through his hair. Somehow such a pedestrian gesture coming from someone like him seemed almost absurd, though Feuilly had seen him do it before.

“You don't have to,” Feuilly said at last.

“I want to,” Enjolras repeated. “You have done more than enough, for all of us. Let me do this for you.”

Belatedly, it occurred to Feuilly that he probably looked as tired as he felt. Ordinarily, this would have irritated him further – he never had appreciated being fussed over like someone who could not keep track of his own limitations – but Enjolras' slightly clumsy sincerity made it difficult.

“If you are certain...” he said.

“I am,” Enjolras assured him.

Feuilly saved his latest annotations to the manuscript and transferred it to Enjolras' datapad, which dinged softly in confirmation. “I'm sorry if my edits are a bit cryptic,” he said. “I normally try to clean them up before anyone sees them, but...”

“I'm sure I've seen worse,” Enjolras assured him. “Remember, a large portion of my intimate circle consists of lawyers and medical students, not to mention writers. None of them are known for being particularly straightforward or easy to decode.”

Feuilly laughed. “True enough,” he said, and swallowed a yawn. “How long are you here? I have to go in to the office tomorrow, but if you can stay until the afternoon...”

He trailed off as Enjolras shook his head. “We're only stopping over long enough to refuel,” he said. “I have a meeting on one of the outer planets in 36 hours.”

“I understand,” Feuilly said, hoping his disappointment did not come through in his tone. “I am glad you stopped by.”

It was Enjolras' turn to look away, turning slightly pink. “I, uh, suggested stopping on Saint-Antoine precisely for that reason,” he said. “I hope I did not disturb you too much.”

“Not at all,” Feuilly assured him. “It was good to see you.”

“You as well,” Enjolras said with a slight smile. He held out a hand. “May this be the first of many times.”

Feuilly took his hand, smiling back. “I certainly hope so.”

Enjolras held on for a moment longer, then let go and rose. “I should get back,” he said. “And you should rest. I know they expect you in early.”

“That they do,” Feuilly agreed, also rising. “The delights of bureaucracy.”

“That is not the word I would have chosen,” Enjolras said, and Feuilly laughed. “Sleep well, my friend.”

“You as well,” Feuilly said. “Try not to lose your mind too badly when going through LaPierre's work.”

“I've read worse,” Enjolras assured him. “But I will be careful nonetheless.”

“Good. I would hate to lose you over it.”

They made their way out of the common area and then, with a final farewell, headed in opposite directions, Enjolras back out to where his ship lay at the refueling dock and Feuilly to his bedroom. He undressed in the dark with the ease born of long practice and limited space, and lay down on his bed, eyes falling closed almost immediately. Before he fell asleep completely he found himself thinking that, all things considered, it had not been that trying of a day after all.

 


End file.
